


9X11 Coda: Crowley's perspective

by Ace_Of_Spades_2014



Series: Crowley's Attraction Towards  A Green-Eyed Hunter [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley on Human Blood, One-Sided Attraction, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ace_Of_Spades_2014/pseuds/Ace_Of_Spades_2014
Summary: Crowley's thoughts throughout 9X11: First Born.





	

The last words that the green-eyed hunter had said to him was that if he ever saw him again, he’d be dead. It had been quite the romantic sentiment after Crowley’s own declaration of love, and Crowley himself had been very touched by the thought. As it was, he didn’t believe the threat would be followed through with. He knew very well that the roughened Winchester had the capacity to kill him if he tried his best to do so, and would have no qualms in putting forth the energy in such an aggressive action, but Crowley also knew that the hunter wasn’t as idiotically impulsive as most claimed him to be. The hunter wouldn’t risk causing a scene in a crowded bar if Crowley were to go up to him right then and there, and for a time human ears would grudgingly listen to whatever the smooth-talking demon had to say. And Crowley was in fact a smooth-talker. Not even the great Dean Winchester could deny that. 

Still, Crowley kept himself from walking over to the hunter immediately. He needed to give the hunter time to settle down at the bar counter and have a couple of shots of whiskey thrown back. Charmer that he was, and manipulative as hell, Crowley always made sure he had the greatest advantage whenever attacking a problem. The best way to attack a problem like Dean was to get him buzzed, take advantage of the repressed hurt that must have been caused by absent little brother, and slide on up as casual as possible. 

Waiting wasn’t that horrible anyways; not when waiting entailed observing said hunter. 

Whatever any demon or angel or fellow human might say about the dysfunctional human, very little could deny that Dean was beautiful. And not just beautiful in the physical, wow-I-want-to-have-sex-with-that kind of way, though he certainly was. Who could argue that bow legs made him look like he’d had just a little bit too much hard sex the night before? Or that those multitude of freckles on his face and hands sparked the curiosity of whether or not there freckles over his entire body? 

What Crowley himself liked the most was the fact that Dean had the demeanor of a true warrior. Even over there on the other side of the bar, casually leaning on his elbows of the counter, any experienced eye could see that he was on high guard. His muscles were tense and ready for a fight, as they always were. His skin was calloused from the blades he had wielded and the fights he had waged, usually against a being more than twice his strength. Green eyes were intense, dark and wise in the nature of the world, with tight lines at the edges after all the years of inhuman stress. It was a persona that very few humans these days possessed, and it was enchanting just as much as it was menacing. 

Even more than that, though, Crowley mused, was the fact that Dean had attributes that the exact opposite of a toughened warrior would have, scarred by the life of a never ending war with the darkness. For one, Dean wasn’t pure muscle. There was that little bit of dough in his mid-section, earned after so many well-appreciated pies and lack of exercise outside of hunts. 

In addition, he was always clean, at least as much as he could be while hunting day in and day out. Crowley had seen plenty of hunters during his years as a crossroads demon and planning out his dirty deals, and Dean was definitely one of the cleanest. Tacky clothes aside and the motel living, Dean always made sure that his skin was clear of the blood, guts, dirt, or any other unclean substance that tended to cling to him during a hunt. Upon observing the hunter for awhile, purely for purposes of knowing who he was dealing with, Crowley had the suspicion that Dean was on the edge of being a germaphobe. It was an amusing tidbit to know.

Then there was the smiles, the lame jokes, the devil-may-care-childish attitude, boyish charm, and everything else that made the hunter so much more than just a hunter. 

Across the bar, Dean nodded at the bartender in gratitude for the beer presented, his earlier depressed attitude slowly washing away from the surface. This was how the hunter always behaved, Crowley had noticed. No matter what burdens weighed on his shoulders, he always tried to brush it aside, hiding his pain behind flirtations and friendly gestures. This time, however, the washing away of depression was going a little slower than usual, and even after a couple of drinks in him, he had yet to leave his seat to find himself an interesting companion. 

A pretty bartender walked past, a tray of alcohol in her hands, a fun-loving smile on her lips. Being the ladies’ man he was, she gave him a flirtatious gaze, her chocolate eyes practically undressing him. Very uncouth, Crowley thought, watching in bemusement. Dean kept a lingering gaze on her as she walked away, following the sway of her hips, an appraising smile gracing his once downtrodden expression.  

That’s when Crowley made his move. 

“So, is that boudoir smile for me?” 

The hunter practically jumped at the smooth, British voice so close to him, turning to face the demon, instantly reaching the demon blade he kept in the insides of his jacket. Up close, Crowley noticed that Dean hadn’t shaved for a few days, his stubble remarkably more rugged than normal. Obviously, what happened with him and Sam after saving the Moose had the Squirrel in a twist. 

“At least buy me a drink first,” Crowley gave a cocky grin at the sight of the blade, having known it was there, and actually more interested in the unkempt appearance of the hunter. He briefly gave him a once over, scanning him from scratchy jaw to poised, bowlegs. 

“I said the next time I see you…”

“Dead, yea, rings a bell, but let’s not dwell on the past, shall we?” 

Dean’s expression was befuddled, which was a good sign. At least it wasn’t murderous. 

Casually, borderline intimate, Crowley continued while the hunter collected his thoughts to process what should be done in such a situation. “This bar is a bust. That waitress is trouble with a capital VD, and your prey. Gadreel, has left the building. So, it’s time to move onto more pressing matters, like destroying Abaddon.”

It was an even better sign when Dean responded to his statement without any motion towards acting upon the instinct to use the blade loosely gripped between his fingers, still hidden behind the counter.“Yeah, good luck with that. The Knights of Hell aren’t exactly the dying kind.”

“But there is something that can kill a knight. The weapon that the archangels used to execute them - the First Blade.”

“Never heard of it. Can I kill you now?” The blade was repositioned in his hand for a better grip.Green eyes were cold and dead. 

Unperturbed, Crowley informed, “I’ve been chasing that blade for decades.” The blade was dropped onto the counter in annoyance, and the hand that had once gripped it now reached for a drink. “The closest I got was when one of my droogs - Smitty - got wind of a protege demon of Abaddon’s who claimed knowledge of the blade. Sadly, before Smitty could nab the guy, a hunter by the name of John Winchester nabbed the protege. I’m here to see if there’s anything in the John Winchester memorial library that might lead us to the First Blade - to killing Abaddon.”

Throughout the pouring of information, Dean pretended to be disturbed by the demon’s presence, but in the second half of the speech, it was clear he was hooked by the knowledge of a useful weapon. The only thing Crowley needed to do now was wheel him in. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Dean did just as Crowley had suspected he’d do from the start, and stashed the blade back into his pocket. 

“You want to hunt? With me?” 

Let it never be said that the little cocky, open-mouthed grin that flittered across those chapped lips and the crinkle of amusement at the edges of his bottle-stained glass eyes did anything to Crowley’s sensibilities. “I do love a buddy comedy.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but it was all in good fun, and the fact that he reached into another pocket of his jacket to pull out the aforementioned journal set Crowley’s inner demon ablaze with delight. The hunter flipped through the pages as Crowley checked their surroundings. There was a demon nex them spying for Abaddon, but there was nothing being said that he didn’t want her to know. Then watched with interest at the hunter reading, not staring at the journal itself, but at the way the hunter’s facial expression changed and those brilliant green eyes flitted over the delicate wiring. 

“Oh, yea. Here it is. Yea, he picked up a protege who had bone with Abaddon, but that’s about all it says in here.” 

Crowley shifted his attention to the journal. “What do those numbers in the margins mean?”

“None of your business.”

Only a little bit frustrated at the distancing information, and the uncooperative, husky, sexy tone of the hunter, Crowley pressed the issue. “You’re gonna play hard to get? We have time for a montage?”

It was surprisingly easy for Dean to bark back, “It’s code - one of my dad’s storage lockers. He may have put something about the case there.”

“And what does the “T” next to the numbers mean?”

“Not a clue.”

“Fine. Let’s go find daddy’s man cave, then, shall we?”

Being the wise hunter he was, Dean inquired, “And how do I know this isn’t a trap?”  
Being the smartass demon he was, Crowley gave a cheshire grin. “You...don’t. That’s what makes it fun.” Without another word or a glance, he elegantly stood from his barstool and headed out . It was with little concern that the hunter would follow. Not to say that the eldest Winchester was easy to manipulate, but….well, Crowley knew how to play the best of them. 

**********

The ride to the storage unit that was noted in the margins of John Winchester’s journal was uneventful and uncomfortable. Crowley had a burlap sack over his head the entire time, and the radio played so loud he couldn’t even attempt to have a jaunty conversation with his newly acquired companion. The entire ride over he wanted nothing more than to teleport away, but he didn’t know where the storage unit was, and the only way Dean was going to allow him anywhere near the items in the storage was if he was completely blinded on the way there. 

It wasn’t until they were in the storage room itself that burlap sack was brusquely pulled from his head, uncaring of the damage that could have occurred by such confinement. Disgruntled by the rude treatment, Crowley tried to tidy his ruffled hair. “Is all this really necessary? I mean, I’ve been inside your brother. We’re practically family.”

And maybe that was a little far to have taken this little game, for the next thing Crowley knew he was pushed up against a wall. There was anger and hate in those beautiful green eyes that stared straight into Crowley’s blue ones, and it was a little unsettling to say the least. Not too long ago it wouldn’t have been, and the demon would have easily laughed off the hunter’s aggressive behavior, but this time it took a little more self-control to do so. 

It had been like this for a while now, ever since Sam did that stupid ritual with the cleansing blood and ridiculous attempts to “cure” him of being a demon. He would get these strange sensations in the pit of his stomach that made him cringe, or these less than ideal notions in his mind. Though he knew exactly what it was that was happening to him, that had happened to him, he had no intention of allowing the Winchesters to figure it out. There was no way in Hell that he would ever allow himself to be seen as that vulnerable in the eyes of predator or prey (and Dean Winchester was certainly both to Crowley). 

So he brushed it off, allowed Dean to give his statement about how they were the furthest thing from family, and continued on with the plan.

**********

Crowley kept a critical eye on the blonde woman behind the counter. He wasn’t surprised at all when Tara pulled out her gun and stared him down. It also didn’t surprise him that there had been a devil’s trap underneath the tacky, knock-off Persian. Annoyed him, sure, but didn’t surprise him. 

“Tara listen, my, uh, associate -”

“Friends - besties, actually.” 

“Not helping.” The glare that the hunter shot over his shoulder was worth the obnoxious comment given. Heck, he might even have to say that being gunned down and trapped was worth it. 

It was all certainly worth it to witness the almighty, righteous hunter defend him. It sent a warm tingle throughout his chest, that Crowley tried to ignore, but really couldn’t. Granted, it was only for the sake of getting the First Blade that Dean would ever dare to speak of Crowley as if he were anything more than a “dickbag”, but the sentiment was warm and fuzzy all the same.

**********

Dean’s body was right next to his, his knee practically touching his. It was soothing and irritating all at once. “Why don’t you just zap out of here?”  

“I’d never leave my domestic partner in crime.”

“Yeah, like your heart grew three sizes.” The hunter stood as he spoke, too anxious to stayed seated any longer. Crowley didn’t dwell on the sense of loss that his immediate absence caused. “You can’t zap out of here, can you?”

“Cain’s doing something to me.” He replied with disdain, all to play up the caught-off-guard victim. Truthfully, though the wards Cain had on the place were strong, the Father of Murder wasn’t attempting to keep him in all that much. It was a light show of power, to scare the demon off, but it by no means kept him stationed there. To speak this to Dean, however, would ruin his image, and would ruin the plans that were going along more smoothly than that he had originally hoped when seeking the hunter out. 

“Well, it’s not your day for getaways, is it? All right, so, tell me about this Cain.”

So Crowley gave him the short version of the story. He always marveled at how little knowledge the experienced hunter had, but maybe he it was a little unfair to expect so much out of a human that had at one time thought his only purpose was to be his daddy’s little soldier.  _ Hmph _ , Crowley chuckled internally at the thought, as if Dean could ever be a simple soldier. As if he had ever been a simple soldier. 

Though the demon hadn’t met the Winchesters before the rise of Lucifer, he had heard plenty about the family of hunters. John Winchester had made quite a name for himself in the years following his wife’s death, and the demons laughed at the idiocracy of raising two baby boys into the life with little regards to their well-being. One more than a dozen occasion, lesser demons had snuck out to chase the Winchesters in hopes of killing off one of the babes, hoping to send Papa Winchester into an abyss of despair too deep to get out of. Evidently shown by the walking and talking hunter before him now, those weakened fools had failed. As the boys grew up, the demons kept an ear out for their progress, concerned that they would grow up to be as much of a nuisance as their father - ever once thinking they’d be three times worse. 

It was during these times that the word about the eldest son made its way to Crowley’s ear. About how a fair, pretty little green-eyed hunter was moving up in the hunter world. About how much of a soldier the boy was. How tough and skilled and dangerous he could become, but tossed his name off to the side because as good as he was, they all said the same thing: he was nothing more than a soldier. A soldier that was nothing without the commands of his father.

Crowley could clearly remembers those rumors and the whispers of the young hunter. A part of him wondered if the other demons recalled what they used to say about him, and whether or not they cringed at the thought of ever underestimating the most vicious and wily hunter there was. No, Crowley mused further, throughout the conversations that dully ran on around him with little advancement of the plot, Dean Winchester could have never been more than just a soldier. He would always be something much more.

**********

There was a gang of demons littering Cain’s yard, waiting for their chance to barge in and fight for their “master”. Those sons--of-a-. Crowley’s blood boiled at their disloyalties. 

In the kitchen, Cain was admonishing Dean’s plea for help. “Since when does the great Dean Winchester ask for help? Well, that doesn’t sound like the man I’ve read about on demon bathroom walls. Maybe you’ve lost a step. Let’s find out.” Cain snapped his fingers, allowing the demons outside the freedom to walk in. Dean stared incredulously, but really, it should have been expected. There was something to prove after all, and Dean had yet to do so with his brave attempts at back talking the Father of Murder. “Enjoy yourself.”

Then there was the battle, a gang of demons against a lonely hunter, and the demons never stood a chance. It was a wonderful sight to see. There was a small disturbance as rogue demon attacked Crowley, rather than Dean, but after that, he had the freedom to observe the warrior in his natural habitat, an arena of blood. The way he moved and killed any that closed in around him was a mesmerizing sight. Like a work of art. Truly beautiful.

After the bloodshed and Dean was the unpronounced winner, Cain said something about them being kindred spirits. Crowley couldn’t have agreed more. 

**********

Cain had gone out for a breath of fresh air, or something like that after Dean had unsuccessfully berated his sense of duty and cowardliness. Outside, demons were piling up again, and this time Crowley wasn’t all that interested in watching the hunter kill his way through the line. Last time it had been for a purpose, but if Cain wasn’t going to take the bait, then staying here was useless. There was a part of the demon that wanted to leave, and knew that he could if he wanted to, but a larger part wasn’t willing to leave his “domestic partner” behind. 

Thankfully, Cain did return, and with a brand new attitude at that. He gave Dean the long speech of cost and sacrifice, something Dean was never too good at taking heed of, and then he gave him the Mark. That too, was something beautiful. Though the human receiving the Mark couldn’t witness the manifestation of its power, Crowley was well aware of the curse that was being passed down to the next generation of killers. The bloodlust, the intensity, the darkness, it was alluring. Especially since it was Dean it was swirling around.

**********

“He was right,you know,” Crowley praised, “You are worthy.”

“Oh, great. Now you’re gonna get all touchy-feely, too?”

There was a flare of anger and hatred that had been rekindled on their walk to the impala. And it was an animosity that rode away from the bee farm. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure where this renewal of frustration came from, but he tried to wash it away as he had managed to do before. 

“Your problem, mate, is that nobody hates you more than you do.” As an afterthought, one that probably shouldn’t have been said out loud, Crowley admitted, “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

As predicted, Dean brushed him off. The demon tried to act as that didn’t sting just a little. “So, how do we find this Blade?”

“You can’t search the bottom of the ocean, but I can. So, I’ll find it, and bring it to its new owner.” He had stepped out of the car. He was a little anxious when Dean, not only followed him out but, moved in closer to him, his demeanor more threatening even more so that it was in the bar earlier that day. 

“I saw you, Crowley. Back at Cain’s.” There was no use feigning ignore of what he was talking about. “You knew. You knew about the mark. You knew about Abaddon and Cain. You knew all of it. And you played me. Why?”

Calmly and casually, Crowley replied, “He would never have given me the Blade.” For one, Cain wouldn’t have thought twice about letting a demon have that much power. Two, as evil as Crowley had been, being King of Hell and everything, he didn’t actually have that killing instinct. He was more of a businessman. “Who can say no to you? I needed you to play along.”

Through clenched teeth, Dean growled, “You knew we were being followed, and you didn’t say anything.” And the huskier that voice went didn’t really have the effect Dean was probably looking for, but certainly emphasized a few things to Crowley about himself and his interests. 

“Well, Cain would want to see his prizefighter up close. You plus demons equals fight night.”

“Tara died. Thanks to you.”

Crowley ignored the sting to his unbeating heart. Played if off. “Omelets. Broken eggs. Et cetera.”

“After I kill Abaddon...you’re next!”

Again, Crowley played the sting off. Tried to pretend that it was just as much as an empty threat as the knife this morning. “You don’t mean that. We’re having too much fun.”

“


End file.
